


Secret Heart

by whyyesitscar



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Rachel Berry kept a secret and one time she couldn't. Brittana told through Rachel's eyes, heavy on the Pezberry friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics from "Secret Heart" by Feist.

 

**"secret heart, come out and share it.**  
 **this loneliness, few can bear it.**  
 **could it have something to do with**  
 **admitting that you just can't go through it alone?**  
 **let her in on your secret heart."**

**(exposition)**

 

There are gross generalizations made about me every day. More than anyone else at William McKinley High School, I, Rachel Berry, am singled out for being different. For being special. A lot of people might think that it’s because I have two gay dads, but that actually wasn’t an issue until high school. No, I’ve always been different, and I’ve always been teased for it. I learned how to rely on myself very early not because of my dads, but because of me. Because of what other people assumed about me.

So instead of playing at the park when I was younger, I watched musicals. Barbara Cook and Julie Andrews became surrogate mothers; Liza Minelli and the incomparable Barbra Streisand were cool, slightly intimidating aunts. The reassurance of a sister from Kansas was always there when I had a bad day. Perhaps I have men like Robert Preston and Richard Harris to blame for my high standards for a boyfriend.

Growing up watching musicals and having the opportunity to pursue every theatrical ambition, you’d think I would have been an egregiously arrogant child. I wasn’t. I love theater because it’s about extremes. You have to know how to oversell an emotion without being over the top. You have to find the subtlety in camp, because there’s a very fine line between more than enough and too much.

So I learned to notice things, to look out for the important little details. I watched people’s eyes when they laughed, their eyebrows when they got defensive. (Eyebrows tell you everything, even if someone’s trying their hardest not to.) I learned to be very good at finding tics that most people didn’t even know they had. I came to know my classmates in and out—how they learned, what they thought of their friends and enemies—even if I had never said more than two words to them.

High school provided me a plethora of opportunities to learn about more people, but none of them were challenges. I figured out Finn Hudson and the rest of the football team in ten minutes, and I had Quinn Fabray pegged after three weeks. I had thought she’d be the toughest nut to crack, but she was fairly simple. At her heart, she was a nice person forsaking her personality for popularity. My only consolation was that I was aware of this and she wasn’t. By the end of the first month of high school, I was already bored with everyone. There weren’t any mysteries.

And then Quinn joined the cheerleaders and acquired two sidekicks, and I still puzzle over them to this day.

Ever since I watched my first musical, my dads and I have played a game. We’ve tried to imagine what our lives would be like if everyone burst into song at will—where would we fit? What kind of role would our friends play? Well, since it’s become perfectly clear that musical theater is my calling, I’ve started preparing for every eventuality. One situation that must be carefully planned is the cast for the inevitable musical based on my life’s story. In my three years at McKinley, I’ve painstakingly judged my friends and peers to see if they’re worthy to play themselves in the movie of my life. Puck will do fine as the lewd sidekick with a heart of gold; Mr. Schue is acceptable as the well-intentioned but cowardly and selfish mentor, though copious amounts of makeup will have to be used to age him down. Finn, unfortunately, will have to be recast. He doesn’t have a face for the silver screen.

I’ve had three years to fit everyone into their respective parts, and I still can’t decide where to put Santana and Brittany. In musicals, there is always a subplot. Liesl and Rolf shift the focus from Maria and the Captain; Carlotta provides comic relief from the angst of Christine and the Phantom. By the start of sophomore year, I was convinced that my relationship with Finn would be an epic love story, perfect for translating to song and sentiment.

But I kept watching Santana and Brittany. I couldn’t stop scrutinizing other people just because I had my entire life planned out. The more I watched them, the more intrigued I became, mostly by Santana. She was so like Quinn, but their differences meant everything. Quinn was reluctant to let go of her popularity crutch. Santana was not only scared of that—she was ready to defend it, many times with physical violence. I wondered what she was hiding under all of her anger. They’re always hiding something. People who willfully hurt others are hiding protective instincts or a surprising set of morals or a breath-stealing, heart-stopping fear. Usually it was a fear, but I couldn’t imagine Santana Lopez ever being scared of anything.

By the time Sectionals rolled around sophomore year, she’d started to crack. This was when Elphaba opened up to Fiyero, when the Captain sang “Edelweiss”. Santana was slipping, and her love story was becoming more interesting than mine. It was different; it was passionate and extreme and secretive. It was exciting.

I spent a lot of time reevaluating my musical. When Santana and Brittany sang together for the first time, I wondered which love story my viewers would perceive as the subplot.

Even now, I think the answer to that question won’t be the one I want.

If I think about all of the romances that comprise our surprisingly scandalous glee club, most can be classified as high school dalliances. Some are more evolved, like the one Finn and I have, but even those are merely relationships. Santana and Brittany are different. They seem to have a deeper bond, a connection that I still can’t quite put into words. I’ve spent hours trying to reason it out, to explain it, but it’s the kind of love for which there is no analogy.

If I could, I’d ask them about it. Brittany would be glad to at least try to enlighten, but Santana would shut me down. Even now that they’re happily, publicly together, Santana hates talking about her feelings. She smiles a lot more, and now I can see that she has a lovely laugh, but any show of vulnerability and she immediately shuts. So I content myself with merely watching them, like I’ve always done. Maybe someday soon I’ll finally grab onto what’s been just out of reach for three years.

Even if I don’t, the brief glimpses I’ve had are enough to give me hope that there’s something more.

* * *

 

**(rising action)**

 

It’s around March of junior year that everything changes.  That’s when Santana changes everything. I’d had my suspicions, of course, ever since that revealing phone tree the year before. And I believed it of Brittany. She’s a sweet girl, and of course I’d heard the rumors that she kissed anything that moved when she got drunk. So I didn’t question the fact that she might like to fool around with Santana. Objectively, they are both two extremely attractive people, and statistics show that attractive people tend to pair up. So really it was an inevitability.

But it isn’t just fooling around, I learn. Santana and Brittany sing “Landslide” with Ms. Holliday and from the way that Santana lashes out at my praise (and it _was_ praise—I always applaud genuine talent), I’ve hit a nerve. This is it, and though my face falls at Santana’s fear and hostility, I feel something spark in my chest.

I’ve seen a lot of love songs performed, and I’ve been involved in more performances than that, but this one is something else entirely. Maybe it’s because it’s not really a love song; maybe it’s because it’s kind of sad. Maybe it’s because it’s an incredibly lonely song, and I’m watching two people sing it and be lonely together.

Whatever the reason, I’m completely enthralled in a way that I wouldn’t have ever associated with Santana.

I don’t want to be intrigued by Santana Lopez. She’s been horrible to me for two years and I shouldn’t be wondering about her. She shouldn’t get a place in my thoughts beyond my list of people to explicitly _not_ thank in any of my future award speeches. But I am, I do, and she does. Even though I don’t want her to be (it’s easier when supporting characters are mere ideas), Santana is a person. She has feelings and they’re all written on her face, and when she and Brittany finish singing it’s like I’m on autopilot. There’s only one way to respond to feelings, okay? And that’s with more feelings.

I guess when she lashes back at me it’s just validation of my suspicions that this secondary character is changing the rules. She’s giving herself more lines and the director is just eating it up instead of shooting her down. I should be fuming, furious that she’s taking screen time away from me, but I can’t bring myself to feel that way. Santana is living in the heat of the moment; she’s feeling things at me in exquisite, dramatic fashion, and I can’t exactly fault her for that because it’s how I live my life. There are only two rules I try to follow. One: there is no such thing as too much music, and two: be anything but a hypocrite. So I understand the act of immersing yourself in your emotions. I’m fairly certain Santana doesn’t do it very often, so I don’t even take it personally when she yells at me.

But I do have to rectify things because though my words were well-intentioned, they were incredibly misconstrued, and I don’t want Santana to think that I’m judging her, especially over something like this. But she runs out of the room before I have a chance to explain.

I clutch my notebooks to my chest and stamp my foot. Obviously she’s going to try as hard as she can to avoid me for the next couple of days, so chasing her is out of the question. That would just draw more attention to her, and clearly she’s had more than she can handle already.

I’m saved, though, by a swish of blond hair to my right. Brittany is far easier to track down, plus there’s a better chance of not being scorched by Santana’s evil glare. Unless Brittany is running to find Santana, which, luckily, she isn’t. I follow her out of the choir room and over to her locker, where she stops and twists the lock unsuccessfully.

“Brittany?”

She glances over at me, her eyes turning from hopeful to unimpressed in half a second. I think she saw brown hair and expected someone else.

“Hi, Rachel. Do you know my locker combination?”

“Um, no. Sorry.”

“Shoot.” She leans her head against the locker, scrunching her eyes and muttering numbers. “I have something to give to Santana but I can never remember my combination and I can’t ask her to open it because I don’t know where she went and it’ll ruin the surprise.”

I blink and take a moment before responding. I may be a fast talker, but Brittany’s sentences are filled with far more pertinent information. I don’t know how Santana processes it all.

“Well, um,” I attempt to recover, “I think they keep the combinations in the office. I could walk with you?”

Brittany’s face lights up and she grabs my hand. “That’s such a good idea!”

She drags me through the mass of students—naturally we’re going against the crowd, a fact which, when my life’s movie finally gets made, will be transformed into an intricately-constructed metaphor—until we come to the hallway parallel to the administrative offices. This hallway is always clear.

“I really enjoyed your song today, Brittany,” I say earnestly. “I know Santana might have gotten defensive, but—”

“That was the wrong thing to say.” The way Brittany speaks is so simple that I can understand why people, me included, might have thought that meant Brittany is simple. But she isn’t. I think she just doesn’t say any more than she needs to. I’ve always had problems with that.

“I know; really, I do. I didn’t intend for it to be so volatile. I really was just trying to give her a compliment. Both of you, actually. You sounded lovely.”

“I know.” She opens the door to the office and immediately looks to me for direction when she steps inside.

I smile and walk to the secretary’s desk, explaining the situation. The secretary, a short, dumpy woman who looks older than Mrs. Hagberg, rolls her eyes at Brittany in a way that I suspect Brittany sees a lot. It’s a look of “Oh no, not _you_ again,” and it makes me irrationally angry. I am fully prepared to play the gay-dads card when I see Brittany’s eyes trained on the ground. She looks exceedingly uncomfortable, and I decide not to make a scene. Brittany tells the secretary her locker number and we’re walking out two minutes later.

The silence this time isn’t as awkward, but I still feel the need to say something. “I can’t believe she was so rude to you in there.”

Brittany shrugs. “It’s okay. Usually they don’t look at me like that if Santana’s with me, but it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s still not right,” I huff.

“Well, thanks for helping me.”

“Of course.” We stop at her locker and she turns the combination slowly, grinning triumphantly when it clicks open.

I smile back. Brittany looks at me like I should leave, but I don’t want to end this opportunity, so I decide to take a risk.

“What are you giving Santana?”

Brittany closes her locker door a few inches and turns away. “I can’t tell you that. It’s like…well, it’s complicated. It’s for Santana, so I don’t think you really need to know.”

I nod slowly. “Okay. My apologies. Can you…um, can you tell Santana that I’m sorry? And I wasn’t trying to imply anything with my comment. I just got so caught up in the performance because it was wonderful, and I’m really sorry if it made her uncomfortable. I’m not judging either of you; I actually think it’s very commendable of you both that—”

“Yeah, I got it, Rachel.” Brittany smiles and it’s a different smile than normal, one that tells me I can stop rambling because she understands exactly what I’m trying to say. “I’ll tell her.”

I thank her and we part ways. Brittany skips and I listen to my heels click on the linoleum. Brittany’s Cheerios-standard white tennis shoes aren’t exactly exciting, but the way they move makes my shoes seem boring in comparison.

Mercedes finds me a minute later so we can drive to the Lima Bean for our weekly meeting with Kurt.

“Why were you talking to Brittany?”

“Oh, I was just complimenting her on her performance today.”

Mercedes’s eyes widen and she grabs my arm. “Girl, please tell me you found out what’s going on between her and Santana because that is one juicy scandal.”

I shake my head. “It isn’t any of our business, Mercedes. And anyway, I didn’t ask.”

“Okay, well what are your Rachel Berry-psychic senses telling you? Come _on_ , we have to have something to tell Kurt,” she urges.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

The next day at school, Santana passes me in the hall and gives me the tiniest of nods. I think even the corners of her lips turn slightly upwards, and I can hear the swell of proud Austrian strings in my head.

* * *

 

**(crisis)**

 

Senior year isn’t exactly starting the way I want it to. New Directions is breaking apart, and a lot of that has to do with Santana. I know that she’s not a terrible person and she’s probably still holding a grudge against me for the kiss at Nationals—which was initiated by Finn anyway, so she should at least redirect her blame. But now she’s imposing herself on my domain, the only arena in which I rule uncontested.

I’m speaking, of course, about theater.

True, Santana isn’t Maria, for which I’m thankful, but the mere fact that she’s here is dangerous. Theater is my safe place. It’s where I go to get _away_ from the nuisances of high school. Not that Santana is always a nuisance; she’s softened considerably since the first year of glee. But she isn’t exactly conducive to a relaxing environment.

It wouldn’t be such a problem if I didn’t have so many scenes with her. But the early rehearsals are filled with uninterrupted hours of just me and Santana. It’s uncomfortable at first. I’m convinced that she’s not going to take this seriously, that she’s going to throw the whole performance. Which would only serve to highlight my incredible acting skills, so I guess there’s always that. But this show is more than just a joke to someone who’s never shown the slightest interest in musical theater.

The first week, to put it nicely, goes horribly. The rest of the cast members, though many of them are New Directions members, are wary of Santana. This is a new environment for them to see her in. It isn’t normal school, where she’s manipulative and hostile, and it isn’t glee practice, where she’s only manipulative. I can tell that she’s trying but no one is being very receptive, and I must admit that it’s difficult when she’s correcting their accents every third word.

On the first Friday, I decide that it’s up to me, as the female lead, to take her under my theatrically-experienced wing and properly introduce her to the world of _West Side Story_. She usually makes a beeline for the door when rehearsals are over, so I have to walk even faster than I normally do to catch up.

“Santana!” Even at my brisk pace, she is a few paces ahead of me.

She stops at the door and turns around wearily, like it’s such an effort for her to even talk to me. “What, hobbit?”

“Rachel,” I correct immediately. “Anyway, I’ve been noticing that you look quite uncomfortable in rehearsals, so I’m formally offering my time and services.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “And I thought you couldn’t get any creepier.”

“What I mean to say is that I thought we could practice over the weekend. I have multiple DVDs of the movie and a few of the various stage productions that we could watch to really understand the _gravitas_ of the show, and, well, I could use some help on my Spanish—”

“If you don’t give me a time and a place in the next three seconds I’m walking away, Berry.”

“Um, my house tomorrow? Around two?” I stutter.

“Yeah, whatever,” she says, her tone distant. “Text Brittany.”

She only shows up ten minutes late the next day.

I see Brittany driving away as I open the door. “You didn’t drive?”

“Britt has to go pick up her little sister from soccer and your house was on the way. Are you going to let me in?”

“Oh, yes, sorry.” I step away from the door and let her pass me. I watch her as she walks—not in an intrusive way (I hope), but just because she looks so different from the Santana I see in school. She’s wearing sweatpants and a cheer camp shirt from 2010. Her hair is in a loose ponytail and some of her hair is poking out.

“What?” she almost accuses.

“Nothing. Do you want anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” she says, and she saunters down into the basement like she’s been in my house a million times, instead of just once.

She’s rifling through my DVD collection when I join her. It takes her a moment to find the musical, and she pops it in without a word. I’ve seen the movie so many times that I don’t watch it as much as I watch Santana. I want to know how she engages, if she’s caught up in the romance of it or not.

Mostly she looks sad, but whenever Rita Moreno is on screen, she sits up straighter and mouths her lines.

“Have you seen this before?” I finally ask, unable to restrain my curiosity.

“Who hasn’t?”

“Oh.”

We watch the rest of the movie in silence and I try not to notice how quiet it is during the sentimental parts. It’s an odd feeling, to be sitting alone in a room with Santana Lopez and not say _something_. One of us always has something to say.

I stop the movie when the credits start to roll and she takes a deep breath in, stretching her back before turning to face me.

“So, what kind of ‘instruction’ did you have in mind, Yentl-Yoda?”

I shrug. “I just wanted to talk, really. I want to know what you think of the story.”

“I think it’s crap,” she fires back immediately.

I feel my eyes practically fly from their sockets. “What! Santana, you obviously don’t appreciate the timelessness of this production. Not only was the original play widely acclaimed, the movie itself is the most decorated musical of all time, with ten Oscars, and—”

“Oh, calm down, Berry. The movie’s flawless. Everything about it is perfection. I just hate the plot, all that Romeo and Juliet bullshit. Whoever dubbed that as the greatest love story ever was seriously disturbed.”

“But…”

“Oh, come on,” Santana continues. “It’s all that fairy-tale, submissive woman crap. They know each for, what, _days_ , and suddenly they’re meant for each other? Suddenly they’d die for each other? You want a real story about sacrifice and pain, go read _Jane Eyre_.”

“You’ve read _Jane Eyre_?”

“It was summer reading; I had to.”

“Oh.”

“Look, do you want to know what I really think about this show?” I nod, albeit reluctantly because I’d prefer it if she didn’t tarnish my adoration for one of the greatest musicals ever. “I think the plot is dumb. I think Bernardo’s a tool, and Riff is even worse. I think Tony’s a coward, Maria’s an idiot, and Anita is the only complex character in the whole damn cast.” She looks down and scoots toward the far end of the couch. “But I know the words to every song. It’s one of my favorite movies. It’s the kind of stuff that we all love, right? The whirlwind romance? Hard not to get swept up.”

I nod, glad that she’s not looking at me because my eyes have taken a turn for the dramatic (and teary). “You looked sad when you watched it. Not just at the end, I mean.”

“Because the whole thing _is_ sad,” Santana murmurs. “Life doesn’t happen like that. You don’t have these epic romances every day. And even if you do, Tony still gets shot, so why pretend?”

I process her words and decide to take a risk. “If you don’t want to pretend, then why do you know all the words to the songs?”

Santana snaps her head up, defensive glare blasting at me full force. “I’m going home,” she announces. She’s rocketing up the stairs before I have a second to object.

(That doesn’t stop me, though.)

“Santana, wait!” I run after her, again, as she storms through my house. “At least practice some songs with me!” She makes no indication that she’s heard me. I try one last time. “Come over tomorrow, then! I have the instrumental versions!”

She slams the door and I watch her walk away, one hand wiping at her eyes while the other shoots a text on her phone.

/

My dads and I are halfway through _Oklahoma!_ the next day when the doorbell rings. My dad gets up to answer it, adjusting his glasses on the way. He leaves the door to the basement slightly open, so I can hear his footsteps when he reaches the door.

I hear his confused “Hello?” and the awkward “Hi, is Ber—Rachel home?” that follows. I excuse myself quickly and run up the stairs.

“Hi, Santana,” I say, and I ignore the look on my dad’s face. He doesn’t associate good things with the name Santana.

“Hey,” she replies. “Um, did you still want to practice?” She shifts her weight from foot to foot. I can’t really say no when she’s looking so conflicted.

“Yeah, sure. I have the CDs in my room.”

“Cool.”

I wave off my dad’s questions as we walk upstairs; there will be plenty of time to fill him in later.

“Please don’t,” I say when I hear the large intake of breath as we walk into my room. “I’d at least have the tact not to comment on the leopard-print bedspread I’m sure you have.”

“I’m sorry, did you just attempt to insult my taste? That’s rich, considering your closet could be its own petting zoo.”

“I thought you wanted to practice,” I say. Years of insults have perfected my air of diplomacy. “Shall we start with ‘A Boy Like That’?”

Santana scrunches up her face. “Can’t we do ‘America’? That one’s way better.”

“Well, that doesn’t make any sense. You could practice that on your own if you wanted. This is the only duet we have.”

“Fine, whatever.”

I press play and the music starts, loud and impassioned, and Santana isn’t vehement enough. She’s pretending at emotion, exuding only the merest hints of anything real. But when I chime in, when the shift in attitude happens, Santana’s voice is sublime. She is soft and tender and more Anita than I could ever have imagined.

“That was beautiful,” I say when the song ends. “Though your solo still needs some work.”

“What are you talking about? I killed it.”

“Technically, yes,” I agree. “But I didn’t feel it. I didn’t believe it.”

Santana rolls her eyes spectacularly. “God, you are such a _snob_.”

“This musical is all about emotions, Santana. You said it yourself, that in spite of the story you get swept up in the drama. You can’t just half-ass it.”

“Rachel Berry _swears_?” she gasps.

“I’m being serious, Santana. Anita is totally dedicated in her convictions right here. She firmly believes that Maria and Tony shouldn’t be together, even though they love each other. That’s what makes the transformation so magnificent. It’s too important to mess up.”

Santana flops down on my bed and spreads her arms wide. “I can’t sing that angry, okay?”

I sit down next to her, backing up to the pillows so she won’t feel crowded. “Why not?”

She heaves a weighty sigh. “Because it’s just… _wrong_. I get that Anita is totally pissed because Tony just murdered her fiancée, but telling Maria that she can’t be with him when they’re obviously really into each other? Like, not that she shouldn’t, which Maria could totally ignore, but that they flat out _can’t_ , like Maria’s a bad person for even liking him—that’s just, it’s not cool.”

My heart is breaking but I can’t help the theater advice from spilling out of my lips. “But that’s why it’s called acting, Santana. You have to at least try. It’s just pretend.”

“But it _isn’t_ ,” she insists. “I don’t understand those kinds of people. I don’t understand how you can dismiss someone for the things that make them happy.”

“It isn’t dismissing, Santana. Anita isn’t angry. She’s protective.” I wait for a response, but it doesn’t come. “You can do that. You’re good at that.”

She reaches over and replays the track.

The first time we perform it for the rest of the cast, we get a standing ovation.

/

The rest of rehearsals go wonderfully. It’s like someone’s given everyone an extra boost of something—energy, passion, excitement, whatever. Everyone is happy to be there and the only fights that break out are over character motivations, not solos or scene-stealing like I’m sure other shows are plagued with.

Brittany is there for every rehearsal, which is good because Artie can’t exactly choreograph “America.” Mostly she sits and watches Santana, offering dance tips when we need it and showing us new routines when we’re ready for them.

It’s a fascinating dynamic that they both have, and more than once Blaine and I get told off for not paying attention. (He, Kurt, and I are all enthralled by this behind-the-scenes glimpse at the two most intriguing girls at McKinley. I won’t confirm anything, but there may be extensive talks and postulations over coffee). Santana is comfortable whenever Brittany’s around, and what’s more interesting is the fact that she deflects to Brittany. She studies Brittany when she gives us advice; she smiles at her when she finishes a song. Santana makes sure she gets Brittany’s approval all the time. It’s endearing.

Once we get all the group numbers down, Artie divides us into groups to practice the spoken scenes. Blaine and I rarely practice during school; we see each other so much outside of it that it seems silly to take up more time. So I end up alone with Santana a lot. Kurt and Blaine stay and watch more often than not, and I don’t even notice Brittany anymore. She’s just always there, middle of the fifth row because that’s the best spot in the whole theater. You see a show from the director’s point of view there. The fifth row is where you see a show the way it was meant to be seen. She smiles the whole time and is quick to comfort Santana when she gets frustrated. She’s there with Santana’s bag when rehearsal is over. Every day she taps her lips and mutters _“Besos”_ , and Kurt, Blaine and I pretend not to notice the love in those kisses.

One Tuesday, about two weeks before opening night, Santana is obviously having a rough day. She’s flubbing lines she normally nails and her entrances on all the songs are off. I’m trying to coax her out of her slump but she rebuffs any tips I try to give her. Eventually she storms off the stage, leaving the rest of us without a clue what to do.

Brittany stands up and adjusts the pleats on her skirt. “Don’t leave, okay? I’ll go talk to her.”

We all nod and Kurt vaults onto the stage once Brittany is out of the room. “I’d bet Daddy Warbucks’s bank account that she comes back to tell us she’s done.”

“Be nice, Kurt; she’s obviously having a rough day,” I chide.

“I know, that’s what I meant. She looked really upset.”

“I think Brittany will sort her out,” says Blaine, ever the pacifist.

Kurt hands him a bottle of water and we all spread out on the stage, taking a break from rehearsing. “What do you think she’s so torn up about?”

Blaine gives him a disbelieving look. “Oh, come on. You should be answering that question, not asking it.”

“I think that’s a pretty big assumption to make. Not everything revolves around sexuality, Blaine.”

“It does when you spend every day singing about forbidden love.”

“I’m going to go check on them,” I say, uncomfortable with the gossip. The problem, I realize as I leave the auditorium, is that I don’t know which way they’ve gone. I debate checking the Cheerios locker room, but that’s all the way on the other side of the school and I don’t think Santana would have gone that far.

I turn into the hallway to my right because studies have shown that when people enter department stores they go right 90% of the time. I have to assume that statistic is applicable in various other contexts as well.

The door to an empty classroom is open a crack, and as I get nearer to it I can hear sniffling.

“They should have just made me Maria,” Santana cries. “I’m obviously scared enough.”

“Santana…”

“I don’t want to be terrified anymore, Brittany. I don’t want to hold your hand under a napkin. I want to be Tony. I want to be fearless.”

“San, Tony isn’t fearless. He’s reckless, and he dies.”

“Yeah, but he isn’t scared. He’s proud.”

I hear Brittany give Santana a kiss. “So you still have some growing to do. It’s okay. I know you’re proud of me. I’m ridiculously proud of you. That’s enough.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Britt.”

“You wanna go back now?”

“Sure,” Santana says, and they’re rustling and opening the door before I have a moment to hide myself. They both stop when they see me. Brittany squeezes Santana’s hand and walks away. Santana and I are, once again, left alone.

“Sorry,” I say quickly.

Santana wipes the remnants of tears from her eyes. “Were you there the whole time?”

“Most of it,” I squirm.

She takes a deep breath. I assume she’s gathering enough lung power to release the most involved string of complex insults I’ve ever heard.

“I know you have a mouth that could rival Sam’s, Berry, but don’t go blabbing, okay?” she says instead.

“Okay.” She nods at me and motions for us to walk back to the auditorium. “Anyway, I think you’re too good for Maria.”

She laughs, her throat still coated with the aftermath of tears. “No, you don’t.”

“Well, no,” I agree. “But I do think you’re the perfect Anita.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

 

**(climax)**

 

It’s a good thing, I guess, that Santana isn’t a part of New Directions when it happens. The emotion behind it all would skyrocket tension throughout the group, and that just isn’t conducive to anything when Sectionals is so near. Not that we would have done an Adele number anyway, because that would have alienated the boys too much, so I guess it’s irrelevant anyway.

As I watch the Troubletones perform, I think that it’s a shame that it took severe emotional turmoil for people to really appreciate Santana’s talent. Finn whispers intermittently in my ear that she’s doing a great job and we’ve got some real competition. Half of me wants to shush him because he’s taking away from the experience, and the other half wants to tell him he’s a fool for not noticing before. It’s nice that he’s trying though, so I don’t say anything.

I just watch Santana sing and I feel my heart break. This isn’t the confident Santana we know. For her, this isn’t the great performance that we’re all seeing. This is fear, too much vulnerability, the cowardice and anxiety she doesn’t want us to perceive. This is a very bad dream for Santana, and I can tell it’s only going to get worse. She keeps looking at Finn like she simultaneously wants to run away from him and hurt him until he stops judging her. She makes a beeline for us when the song is over and I try to tell her that it’s not what she thinks, but fear is always stronger than reason.

She doesn’t apologize after she hits him. She just kind of stands there for a moment, looking more and more like she’s about to cry, and then she runs. She yanks her shoes off her feet and drops them behind her, pace picking up as her bare soles adjust to the floor. The double doors slam heavily a moment later and we let the sound echo until it fades.

The words come quickly after that, popping out like all those sound effect balloons you see in comics.

“What the hell?”

“Be quiet, Noah.”

“That was totally unfair!”

“Is she okay?”

“Can I go find her please?”

Both Mr. Schue and Shelby nod at Brittany and she whisks off, picking up Santana’s shoes on her way out the door. We all turn our heads toward the teachers after the doors close for the second time. They look just as perplexed as we do.

“Mr. Schue!” Finn blurts. “I didn’t do anything; that was totally uncalled for!”

Mr. Schue holds up a hand to silence him. “It wasn’t directly your fault, Finn, but someone overheard your conversation with Santana and now there’s a campaign ad outing her to the whole state. I’m not saying her anger was justified, but please don’t be so quick to place blame.”

“Of course I have to place blame; she _slapped_ me!”

“Finn.” I touch a hand to his forearm. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t…I just said she should come out,” he flounders. “Like, we all know anyway so what’s the big deal, and it turned out okay for Kurt.”

“Yeah, after I got _bullied_ , Finn,” Kurt interjects.

“But that won’t happen to Santana. I mean, she’s kind of the scariest girl in school. Who’s gonna pick on her, you know? I don’t understand why you’re all upset. I thought it was better when people were honest.”

“It is, Finn, but only when you’re honest on your own terms.” I remove his arm from my shoulder and stand up. “I’ll talk to you later; I need some time to think.”

“Rach!” Finn gets up and tries to follow me out the row of seats. His legs get tangled as the chairs pop down. “Rachel, come on!”

Kurt joins me and we walk to his car in silence. He is parked next to Finn’s dingy pickup truck, and it’s hard for me to look at it at the moment. I know it’s foolish, but the chipping teal paint, stained with rust and dirt, makes me incredibly angry. Finn worked hard for that car. He got the parts and found odd jobs where he could. It was an accomplishment to him, buying that car from Burt. It makes me mad that he took away Santana’s accomplishment, even if he didn’t realize he was doing it. He should have.

“Are you going to say something to her?”

Kurt doesn’t need to specify who he’s talking about. We both want to find Santana.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I want to. But I’m not sure she’d let me. I’m not sure it’s my place.” I look at him, noting the frown lines on his forehead, the disappointment and fatigue in his eyes. “Are you?”

He shakes his head. “No. She’d misinterpret my motives. I don’t want her to think I’m pitying her. At least you’ve already got an… _intrigue_ into other people’s lives.”

“Kurt, you gossip more than I do,” I chide.

“Yes, but I’m not quite as vocal about it.” He slides the key into the ignition, stalling before he turns it. “Her house is just a few blocks from school. It’d be easy to drop you by there.”

I mull the idea over in my mind. I want to talk to her while everything is still fresh, while I’m still justifiably mad at my boyfriend and before I start feeling guilty about it. But who knows if Santana’s at home yet. And if she is, Brittany is there with her and I’d be grossly intruding on an extremely personal and private moment.

“No. Just take me home, please.”

/

My dads are watching _Project Runway_ reruns when I get home. It’s a habit they picked up from Kurt. They’d never have watched the show if he hadn’t been so enthusiastic about the fashion.

I drop my heels by the door—uncharacteristic for me as I’ve got a meticulously categorized shoe rack in my room.

“How did the mash-off go?” my dad calls from the living room.

“It was fine,” I respond. “Sort of.”

“No Finn?” They both look around me when I walk in the room, as if I could possibly be hiding Finn’s gargantuan frame.

“No. Kurt drove me home.” I sit in between them on the couch and curl my legs into each other. “If someone outed you in high school, would you ever be able to forgive them?”

My dad pushes his glasses back on his nose and blows out a deep breath. Daddy runs a hand through his hair and scratches the back of his neck.

“That’s a tough question,” he sighs. “Hiram?”

Dad gives him a look that says he doesn’t have too many answers either. “I don’t know, Rach. Coming out is a hard thing to do. If I weren’t able to control it myself…”

He trails off but I know what he isn’t saying. _I’d remember it forever; it would never be a good memory; I wouldn’t feel proud of myself_.

Daddy grabs my hand and smooths his fingers over mine. “Are you…?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Finn sort of inadvertently outed Santana.” I explain the situation as best as I can, trying not to add too much emotional bias. They already know that I’m sensitive to this issue. I don’t need to overload them with sympathy for Santana, and it’s not like I don’t feel bad for Finn.

“That’s awful,” Dad says, clicking his tongue. “I don’t mean just Finn,” he clarifies, “though he certainly could use a lesson in tact. But that poor girl.”

“Yeah,” I murmur.

“Are you worried that Santana won’t ever forgive Finn?” he asks. “Because she might not, and I can’t say I would completely blame her.” Daddy gives him a look. “Oh, don’t play noble, Leroy. You know how tough it is in high school.”

“I am worried about that,” I admit. “I hope she would. I’d like us all to be friends. But…” I let my words hang, not sure if they’re ones I’m allowed to say. I don’t know if what I’m feeling is right; it’s not like Finn personally offended me. But I am taking it personally.

“But you’re worried that _you_ won’t forgive him either,” Daddy finishes.

“Yeah.” My voice is small, like it was when I was five years old and scared. “I just don’t understand why Finn didn’t think things over. He’s spent _ample_ time here with you, and Kurt’s his brother, and I just thought he knew better than this.”

“Rachel, Finn isn’t as… _cultured_ as you are,” Dad starts. “He may be surrounded by gay people now, but it’s still new for him. You and Kurt—even if he tried not to for a very long time—you’ve grown up around it. You know to think before you do or say anything. You know that this is something that always requires consideration and awareness. Finn doesn’t really get that yet. He’s had a lot of experience with being right, and sometimes you have to fail really big before you realize you can be wrong.” He pats my hand and the softness in his eyes that he always gets when he comforts me is gone. His mouth is a taut, thin line, and for a moment I think he’s going to yell at me. “I want to make it clear, though, that I’m not justifying what he did at all. When you feel up to calling him, I want have a talk.”

“ _We_ want to have a talk,” Daddy emphasizes.

“Okay,” I nod, giving them each a kiss on the cheek. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

Dad catches my arm before I walk too far. “And if Santana wants to have a different sort of talk, we’re here for that, too.”

I nod again and go upstairs. I fall onto my bed, fully aware that my phone is in my bag downstairs. I have no plans to get it.

I fall asleep.

/

It’s just after one by the time I wake up again. I’m disappointed that I didn’t sleep through the night, but I’m not surprised. I never sleep well if I still have things I want to do.

There are ten texts and three missed calls from Finn when I look at my phone. I stumble over letters as I type out a reply, my eyes still adjusting to the harsh backlight of the screen.

_Come over tomorrow; my dads want to talk to you. So do I._

I look at my messages, thumb hovering over the month-old conversation, back when we were still scheduling play rehearsals. It’s selfish, sending a text and imposing when I know she’s still fragile, but I feel guilty. I have a need to explain—mostly for Finn, but a little for myself. Ultimately, that urge wins out.

I impulsively change my mind and decide to call her because texts seem easier to ignore. It takes three tries before she finally picks up.

“Can you just, _not_ , right now, Berry?” Her voice is hoarse and spotty, like some of her words don’t want to come out.

“I know it’s not my place at all, but can I come over?”

“No.”

“ _Please_ , Santana. I just, I have something I really want to say. You don’t even have to say anything back; you can just listen.”

“You can talk just fine on the phone.”

“I speak better when I can see who I’m talking to.”

“Really? I think you speak better when you don’t at all,” she snaps.

“Please, Santana,” I beg.

“I just want to go to sleep, Berry.” I wait just a minute longer, not ready to give up. “I’ll leave the door open,” she finally huffs. “But if you’re not here in ten minutes I’m deadbolting the lock.”

I blurt a swift thank you, glad I put my shoes on and found my keys before I even made the call.

Santana’s house seems dark and sad when I finally pull up eight minutes later, but maybe that’s because I know everything that happened. She’s waiting for me on the porch, halfway through a cigarette, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled tight around her face.

“I didn’t know you were serious about smoking.”

“I don’t usually,” she says, stubbing it out. “Brittany doesn’t like it. But it’s been a bit of a stressful day.” She gets up, saving me the task of awkwardly hovering over her chair, waiting for her to direct me where to go. “I guess you can come in, or whatever.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, and I follow her inside. She doesn’t turn on any lights—just sits down on a couch and waits for me to join her. I sit on an armchair across from her, not wanting to crowd. I turn on the lamp next to me; she might yell but I can’t talk to the darkness.

“I’m sorr—”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.” I look at her before I speak. Her eyes sag but the fatigue in them can’t be cured by sleep, I imagine. Her cheeks are heavy, like they’re caught in fish hooks that run all the way to the floor and she can’t take them out. “Is Brittany here?”

Santana shakes her head. “No, I sent her home. I can’t”—she blows out a shaky breath, like that will chase away the tears forming in her eyes—“I need time,” she says. “I just need time.”

“Oh. I understand.” I wince at myself. “I mean, I don’t; I couldn’t, really. It’s not like I’ve ever been through this, but I get the need to be alone, and—”

“What did you come here to say, Berry?”

I take a deep breath and focus my attention on my fingers. “I wanted to apologize for Finn. I mean, not completely; he should absolutely come to you and apologize for himself because it is his fault. I just feel like I should have done more to impress upon him the seriousness of this topic and just how much it means to you and me and other people. I don’t want you to think that I’m making excuses for him because I am on your side one hundred percent and Finn and I will be having a _very_ long talk later.”

Santana is silent for so long that I look up to find her staring at me. She holds my gaze for a few seconds before she laughs. “God, Berry,” she says, wiping a hand over her face, “everything is a speech to you, isn’t it? You shouldn’t have quit the election; you’re perfect for it.”

I look down again, blushing. “Sorry,” I mumble.

“Don’t apologize,” she scolds. “Don’t apologize for you and don’t apologize for Finn. He isn’t your responsibility. He’s mostly an adult. He fake-knocked up a chick, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yes, but…”

“But nothing, Berry. He’s a moron and he says stupid shit and sometimes people get hurt.”

I purse my lips together, just in case I involuntarily agree with her. “Well, I’m sorry that it hurts,” I say.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

I get up from my seat and take a piece of paper out of my pocket. I have to leave it now, when Santana is still receptive to help.

I give it to her and close her hand over it. “I’m not saying you have to, but…these are my dads’ emails.” I feel her hand jerk back reflexively and I tighten my grip. “It’s up to you but they’d be glad to listen. Just think about it, okay?”

She nods and I give her a small smile. Every bone in my body wants to hug her, but my gut tells me that would be too much. So I smile again and squeeze her shoulder. I stop in the doorway. “You’re not alone in this, Santana.” She doesn’t turn around but I know she’s listening. “You might think you only have Brittany but, well, you have other people, too.”

I don’t wait for the response that’s never going to come.

When I fall asleep again that night, it’s like the curtain falling on a twisted first act, where everything goes wrong instead of ending on a hopeful note. I lean back into the pillows and wonder why I even started watching them at all; if it wasn’t just something that I shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. I wonder if I’ve overstepped a line, if my natural curiosity has finally gotten me into trouble I can’t fix.

My dads spend the next two days asking me about Santana because they don’t know what to say to her.

They obsess over every email. I think it’s kind of cute.

Santana and I don’t ever talk about it.

Maybe that wasn’t the end of the first act. Maybe that was just a little stumble, because this feels a lot more like hope.

* * *

 

**(falling action)**

 

(There is always a moment in the second act when two characters reconcile, when things feel as new and fresh as the first act did. You remember how good it felt to be experiencing something for the first time, only now you have the knowledge of your past. You have the memories, even if they’re bad. Sometimes I think the bad memories are better. They’re more romantic, certainly—more dramatic and more universal. Happy is too generic to be universal. But everybody feels sad. Besides, you don’t really learn what good is until you have a perfect example of bad.

It’s this kind of memory-pain that I feel when I see the Troubletones girls singing off to the side. It’s a pulsing in my chest, at once nostalgic and unfamiliar. It thrums a tattoo against my ribcage, strings plucked by unskilled but ambitious hands. It beats until it’s all I can feel and I can’t tell if it’s happy or sad or both.

Santana looks like she’s stuck in the same in-between place that I am, so I grab her hand and lead her back to the group. She doesn’t have to be stuck alone, and I won’t tell anyone that she was stuck in the first place.

Besides, once she joins us, I pull myself from indecision, from ambiguity, and come to rest in the company of friends and songs and smiles.)

* * *

 

**(denouement)**

“I’d just like to point out that the sooner we get the verses picked, the sooner we can start practicing, and the sooner we can stop stressing about everything.”

“You’re the only one stressing, Berry. We’ve already got this figured out.” Santana crosses her ankles in the air as she lies on my bedroom floor, flipping idly through a back issue of _Back Stage_. “God, this is _boring_ ,” she says, closing it with purpose.

“Um, actually we haven’t got it all figured out, Santana,” Tina chimes in. “Technically there are only three verses, so someone is going to get short-changed.”

“Seeing as this was my idea originally, I’d like to claim the opening stanza.” No one objects, so I write a number ‘one’ next to my name on the checklist I’ve made.

“Well if that’s how we’re going to play it, I’m calling the second verse for demanding we use the Roberta Flack version instead of Celine Dion,” Mercedes insists.

“There isn’t _anything_ Celine can’t execute to perfection, Mercedes,” I reply vehemently.

“And yet Celine ain’t got shit on my girl Roberta.”

I roll my eyes and write a two next to Mercedes’s name.

“So, how are we going to pick who gets the third?” Tina says. “Because if Santana doesn’t want it, I’d really love to have a solo.” She rests her head on her chin, pivoting inquisitively toward Santana. “Do you want it?”

“I don’t care,” Santana replies.

“Okay, so—”

“Wait,” Santana interrupts. She flicks her finger over the screen of her iPhone, where I presume she’s been looking at the lyrics. “I change my mind. I do care. And I do want it.”

Tina pouts and slumps her shoulders. “Okay. Do you want to, I don’t, rock-paper-scissors for it?”

Santana clears her throat and picks at my carpet. “No. I’m just asking for you to let me have it. Please,” she adds a beat later.

 _Please?_ Mercedes mouths at me incredulously. I roll my eyes again.

“Um, okay,” Tina stutters. “Why?”

“Look, you don’t see me over here dissecting your motives. We want this song to mean something to Mr. Schue, right? Well, this means something. To me. If you’re that bent out of shape about it, take the fucking verse; I don’t care.” She looks down and tries to hide her flushing cheeks.

(We all notice anyway. The deliberate effort on all of our parts not to say anything is stifling).

“Well, I’ve already put Santana’s name down for the third verse,” I say to diffuse the tension, even though I’m still in the midst of writing. “Tina, I know just the way to arrange the song so you get equal time.”

“Gee, thanks,” she grumbles.

She gets over it, though, and the first practice goes very well. I suppose I should clarify that it ends with all of us in tears, but considering the subject matter, I’d consider that a success. Santana doesn’t speak to anyone when she leaves, but she accepts a squeeze on the shoulder from Mercedes and a smile from me.

It’s nice, and not just because I always relish seeing someone express honest emotion. Santana and I are singing about love again, and she’s crying (again)—but this time, she doesn’t storm off. She walks away calmly, face thoughtful, eyes focused on something specific that only she gets to know. This time, instead of checking to make sure she’s not too upset to walk herself home, I watch as she gets into Brittany’s car and gives her a quick kiss on the lips. This time I don’t feel the need to check up on her.

 **[From: Santana]** _Sorry if I ruffled your feathers. Thanks for the solo_.

I glance at my phone and puzzle over the text for a moment.

_Though I’m touched by the sentiment, Santana, I don’t think you have anything to apologize to me for._

**[From: Santana]** _Crap, I meant to send this to Girl Chang. You’re right next to each other in my contacts. Forget it._

_I’m next to Tina?_

**[From: Santana]** _Of course you are, Gayberry. Problem?_

 **[From: Santana]** _Sorry._

 **[From: Santana]** _I wasn’t too rude to Tina, was I?_

I smile, excited that Santana’s the one to bring up feelings this time. It’s like opening the door to an endless vault of pathos and I get to just step right in.

 _On the contrary, Santana—I think it was very brave and moving for you to have asked. I commend you for your honesty; it made your performance all the more real. Tina was being a bit stubborn, actually_.

 **[From: Santana]** _Hold up there, Freud. It was just a simple question._

 **[From: Santana]** _I need to be at least six shots into weepy-drunk before I willingly start talking feelings with you_.

I shake my head and throw my phone onto my bed. I’ve learned to tell Santana’s insults apart, after years of being on the receiving end of them, and that was almost affectionate.

I sink my head into the pillow and put on my headphones. The _Wicked_ soundtrack lulls me into a trance as my phone buzzes one last time.

 **[From: Santana]** _Thanks, I guess._

* * *

 

**(encore)**

 

Four years later, my life hasn’t turned out at all like I thought it would.

I’m about to graduate from NYADA. Finn and I didn’t get married. I’m happy about it.

And Santana Lopez is one of my closest friends.

(It’s a plot twist, a big one, but all the good stories have them. I guess I should consider myself lucky. There’s no rule saying my story had to be a good one).

It’s an odd sort of friendship, I suppose. We still bicker some of the time. Actually, most of the time—it seems that our arguments have only gotten more polished in college. I find it endearing and comfortable, and it balances out when Santana starts to stress and I have to remind her how amazing she is, or when I’m feeling down and she invites me over for dinner because she’s accidentally made too much vegan lasagna.

I spend a lot of time squished into Santana and Brittany’s crappy studio apartment. It’s kind of cozy and it always smells friendly.

For the past few weeks, Santana has been jumpy. She’s ended calls early, shooed me out of her apartment, completely flaked on lunches and coffee dates. If this were high school, I’d think the worst of her. But I know her better than that, and I know that she’ll either call me in a tizzy or completely explode at the most inopportune moment.

Then again, she’s Santana Lopez and you can’t ever really pin her down.

So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when she ends up doing both.

“You gotta help me, Rachel,” is all she says before I even get in a greeting. “You like romance, right? Like, you’re all sappy and cheesy and shit?”

“Well, yes, though I wouldn’t call it ‘shit.’ I don’t know what girl doesn’t like romance.”

“Me. This girl. I don’t do romance. I don’t get romance.” Santana’s words are choppy and rushed, as if she’s spitting them out of her mouth even before her brain has the chance to process them.

“Okay?” I wait for her to explain further, but it seems her brain has finally caught up to her words and rendered her cautious. “Can this wait, Santana? I have a final—”

“No, just, hear me out. So I was walking back home today and I passed a jewelry shop. Went in just for the hell of it and I saw a ring that would be perfect for Brittany. And I figured, we’ve known each other forever and we’ve been together for five years—even longer if you count the part where we were both giant cheaters. So I bought it and then I got home and now I’m freaking out and she’s going to get back from class any minute now and I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anything planned but I can’t keep this a secret; she’s totally going to know—”

“Santana. Slow down.” I adjust my phone against my ear and rifle around in the drawer where I keep a binder tailored just for these situations. “It’s a good thing you called me; I happen to have multiple contingency plans that you can implement.”

“What…?”

“Now, how public were you thinking of making this proposal? Because there are subcategories that change depending on the degree of exposure.”

“Rachel.”

“If you want anything to do with skywriting, I’m afraid you’ll have to develop a really good poker face because that costs a good deal of money, plus it takes time to secure an appointment.”

“Rachel.”

“Of course, there’s always the old standby of a flash mob in the park. I happen to have at least five pre-choreographed routines, and it would only take me a few days to come up with an adequate amount of participants.”

“ _Rachel._ I don’t want to do anything giant,” Santana practically yells. “I just…need you to talk me through this. I don’t do impulsive when it comes to feelings and Brittany and I don’t want to wake up tomorrow totally prepared to scrap the whole idea.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” she whines. “Tell me I should have done this months ago.”

“You should have done this months ago,” I echo.

“Not literally. Jeez.”

“Fine. You should have done this _years_ ago,” I amend.

Santana pauses, and I listen to the static on the line. I wait. She’ll come through in her own time.

“Really?” Her voice is small, like I would have to catch it in a jar or it would fly away and dissolve into the wind. “Like, for real?”

“Can I tell you a secret, Santana?”

“That’s just a signal that you’re going to anyway, so why the hell not.”

“You have to promise you won’t think I’m weird, though.”

“Impossible; I already know you are.”

“I suppose I set you up for that one,” I sigh. “When we were in high school,” I continue, “I didn’t have a lot of friends. And no, that’s not the secret. I spent a lot of time by myself, thinking and planning things. I think I was a lot more perceptive than anyone really gave me credit for. This might sound a little strange, but I…I used to watch you and Brittany. _Not_ in the way you’re thinking,” I say in response to the strangled noise she makes. “I just didn’t understand the two of you. Brittany was always so nice and you were always so… _not_ , and I didn’t get how you worked. But the more I watched you, the more I realized that it didn’t really matter how you worked. It was just kind of beautiful that you did. And I watched you so much that I realized I’d starting basing my idea of romance around how you and Brittany acted together. The way she’d rest her head on your shoulder in Glee or how you gave her a yellow tulip for her birthday, and I’d wonder if that was something you’d known for a long time or if you still remembered it from when she mentioned it three months prior. So, yes, I like romance, and yes, I’d be happy to give you advice. But I don’t think you really need it.”

“Rachel…”

“You don’t have to do anything today, Santana. But I know it’ll come to you.”

“…you are _so weird_ ,” she finishes.

I burst out laughing in spite of myself. “I can’t help it; I’m dramatically-inclined! I see theater in everything!”

Santana joins in my laughter. “Of course you do. And just how much of my life have you translated into a musical?”

“Everything but the big finale,” I reply without missing a beat.

Santana laughs even harder. I hear a faint click on her side.

“Look, Britt’s home, so I gotta go. Thanks for the laughs—and, well, thanks.”

(Five years later and she’s still awkward with the gratitude. That’s how I know it’s sincere).

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll make you a soy-milkshake or something.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Maybe a whole pitcher.”

“Say hi to Brittany for me. I’ll stop by on Thursday, maybe.”

“Yeah, will do. See you later.”

“Oh, Santana?”

“What?”

“Chocolate. I like chocolate shakes.”


End file.
